Equilibrium
by WeLcOmE2pArAdIsE
Summary: ["I have nightmares of you lying on the ground, in your blood, in a broken heap. And sometimes . . . I'm not upset about it."] The world is rebuilding, but their lives and legends continue to crumble. SasuSaku and other things.
1. And After

Oh, hey. It's been three years and I'm feeling painfully nostalgic for my fandom. Really, I feel compelled to apologize because none of those old experiments are ever going to be finished and I feel bad about it. They're garbage and reflective of growing pains. Still, it's a testament to growth; I'm writing the real thing now, ladies and gentleman, short stories and worlds galore. Publish-hustle. And maybe these are bad too, or just things I need to shake out of my head. These drabbles were written a while ago before completely knowing the ending of the story, so this is probably going to go my own way and I'm cool with it. I'm five chapters in and have been inspired to take a crack at a few more, but like everything else, no promises. Sometimes you just want to see something written that no one else will do, so you have to roll up your sleeves and do it yourself, like building a DIY coffee table.

Exploring friendship, love, loss, and rebuilding in the aftermath, as well as forgiving one another. Somewhere after the final battle and before all the gompy films and spin-offs. Partial to SasuSaku, Team Seven, and NaruIno, and SasuIno friendship, squad!love but I don't really know; other things might be sprinkled in here. I want to make an honest effort at writing a little about everyone. Originally posted on Archive of Our Own, as Faint_Harlot. Disclaimers and stuff.

* * *

 **And After**

 _Broken bodies pour in to be fixed by broken hearts. The only way to start over is to speak._

 _._

 _._

 _._

Sasuke thinks flowers are stupid, but he doesn't know how else to apologize. All he has to give are words, and he doesn't know many good ones.

She has been quite busy lately, healing every battered lump of flesh that has come knocking at her office door. Hardly leaving anymore, sleep comes only in fitful naps and bloodstained coats – which are irritating anyway, but all the chaos requires it. It is a symbol of hope and order among the rows of bodies, some which hardly draw a breath.

He slips in at odd times, working around his daily schedule of interrogations, written confessions, and regularly occurring nightmares. Laundry proves to be a frustrating task for him, and death is preferable to asking for help, _not that Naruto would know how to, anyway._

"I could just do it for you, you know," Ino sighs, arms folded. Body leaning against the door frame to hold herself up for this bleary 2 a.m. chore. She is exhausted as the rest of them, but she's never been one to refuse Sasuke. Especially in his pitiful, albeit humorous, attempt at trying to fix things.

Sasuke makes a pained face: Whether it is at the suggestion or the blood running down the drain in washed-out rivulets, she is not sure.

He mutters something along the lines of "Least I can do."

"I tried to get her to slow down, but she's stubborn as always," Ino drawls. "I don't know the last time she's been home."

Accusing silence.

"She won't listen to me," the blond adds. Stifles a yawn. "What's your next plan?" Even Ino has come to interpret the fascinating gradient of silences of which Uchiha Sasuke is capable. "Is apologizing out of the question, or …?"

His response is an irritated grunt; white coats tumble from the high dryer and onto Sasuke's head. Stomping, he quickly gathers them into his arms and tosses them in the basket with an accompanying glare at their audacity.

A beat, and his anger fades. Ino hates how pathetically lost he is.

"C'mon, let's soften her up with some flowers. It's the best place to start."

* * *

When he slips through the door without a sound, he realizes Ino was right.

She's fallen asleep on a mess of paperwork and a scalpel with a thick coat of dried blood. Head on her arm, fingers dangling over the front of the desk, loosely curled. Nail beds harboring the deep reds and purples of a hundred and one procedures, not all of which were successful.

He sees cards and flowers from others; shoving them aside, he places the vase carefully at the corner of the desk. Drops the immaculately-folded stack of coats and clothes with a quiet _foomph_ onto a chair, and stands in front of the desk, watching her back slowly rise and fall.

 _Stubborn._

Without a sound, he places his hand underneath her bangs, on her forehead. _Warm. Too warm._

He could wake her up, but he has the feeling the conversation would play out as it had the past few days. Refusal, cloying, "Don't worry, I'm fine." She is done acquiescing to suggestions; she's not a little girl anymore.

He thinks she wants to fix the world. He knows that's likely his fault; he's the one she can't put back together.

Leaning over the desk, fingers splayed across paper. Letters brimming with strong words . . . thankful, accusing, technical, or full of grief. Embedded with attributed meaning, they build up and tear down with precision. Needless to say, he is not well-versed with emotional words; and lately, that's all his life has been. Stories, actions archived into documents chronicling his messy life. Marking people, motives, and death. Weaving a legacy that none of his peers will escape.

Nor her.

Taking in her tired eyes, worn knuckles, the beginnings of a fever she will refuse to acknowledge, he stupidly mumbles, "Sorry."

The back of his neck prickles as if shadows will strike, as if what he says is forbidden. Now that he has opened his mouth, it won't stop, _stupid._

"Sorry," he inhales, leaning and pressing his mouth against her hair. He tries to stop, but his lips keep moving: "Sorry . . . sorry . . ."

There's no better way to articulate this, and maybe it is better she's asleep. He's furious, searing heat dashing across his neck, cheeks. _Stop talking, idiot._

His fingers find her coat, twist themselves in anger. He's pathetic and he knows it, that he has to do this while she's unconscious. She will never hear it. Quiet syllables hiss, lingering in the still air, a confessional whisper.

For once, he's lost and cracked open with no solace.

* * *

"Why didn't you make her go home, Ino!?"

"Keep your voice down, idiot; and you really think I can tell her what to do? Geez, first Sasuke, then you—"

Ino waits for Naruto to recite his customary curses and grumbles.

"He's still being a big jerk to her—"

"My point is, maybe you guys should just let her do what she needs to do, and then prop her up when she needs it, because that's what she's always done for both of you!"

There's a sore point, a snap in her voice that cannot be argued with. Maybe a touch of guilt. Too late have they finally rekindled a childhood relationship. There's a lot they have to fix. And too late she has finally been thrown into the dysfunctional dynamic under which Team Seven operates.

Naruto is too busy pouting; Ino throws her arm abruptly and it knocks the wind out of him.

" _Oomph!_ Man, having you around means being hurt twice as much—"

"Do you hear something?"

They fall silent (well, save Naruto's complaining) and Ino grabs the back of his jacket before he can rush headlong into Sakura's dark office.

"Just – stay – still!"

They poke their heads around the door frame and Ino preemptively puts a hand over his mouth before he can yell at Sasuke and ask him _just what the hell are you doing you-!_ He speaks into her hand, slobbering on her palm in anger, or jealousy, she guesses. There's always jealousy.

Ino drags him down the hall as quickly as possible.

"I want to spy as much as you do," she hisses, "but you're too damn loud! Now we have to deal with his sullen temper!" Frowning at him, she continues to drag him away. "And yours, too."

* * *

She notices the flowers first. They're cut with frightening precision; and she cannot deny that they brighten up the sullen office. Gently fingering the petals of a daffodil, her eyes sweep the room. "Oh!"

Sitting still as stone, his elbows are on his knees. Occupies a chair in silence, like a statue.

"How long have you been here?"

As usual, there's no answer. "Do you need something, Sasuke-kun?"

She continues bustling around, organizing paperwork. He slowly rises from the chair and heads for the door.

"Wait, who brought me these?" she asks. Something in her voice suggests she already knows the answer. "And who cleaned those?"

Confusion is written all over her face, so he offers an imperceptible shrug. "You're busy. You should take better care of yourself."

She bristles a little at his callousness; after all, the wings are full of the dead and dying. Despite herself, a small smile winds its way onto her face. "Well, thank you."

Turning back, he frowns. Her bright eyes widen as he places his hand on her forehead.

Without another word, he turns to leave again. Before he can, she wraps her arms around him and exhales, "It's okay, you know."

Neither move.

Tentatively, he returns the hug. Just this once. "Hm?"

"I'm not that fragile," she scolds, squeezing him tighter. "And I heard."

He doesn't grace her with an answer, ever stubborn, ever rude. It is only in another instance of certain death that he would begin to admit his stupid, rambling apology. Maybe.  
"I'm just glad you're alive," she sighs into his collarbone. "There's too many bodies as it is."

This fact is uncomfortable to him, and acutely. There's something about her profession that makes him nervous; she does not have to be doing this. She does not have to take responsibility for Death, but with everything he had seen since his return, she was likely the only one of them who could. Naruto bullies it into submission; he dances across the line every time he needs to feel alive.

"Anyway, your apology is accept—"

She is interrupted by a click and flash coming from the door: In the light, two pairs of bright blue eyes shine brilliantly. One with mischievousness, the other reflecting anger.

"You _jerk_ —"

"Haha, this is golden!"

"Ino-pig!"

"…" _Great._

"You come back and just think you can hug my Sakura-chan all the time?"

"I'm making so many copies of this!"

"I'm not yours, Naruto, I don't belong to you!"

" …" _Listening to Ino was a stupid idea._

"Augh, you still have your hands on her, jerk!"

"I said to apologize, not hook up—"

"Excuse me, we're not—"

" . . . _Your_ Sakura?"

Sasuke actually speaking leaves everybody struck dumb. In the resulting lull, Sasuke hastily snatches the camera from Ino's hands and stalks out with Naruto furiously snapping at his heels.

Sakura turns away from Ino, quickly shaking out a white coat and throwing it around her shoulders. At the same time, they turn to stare at the vase of flowers on the desk.

Raising their gazes to one another, Ino grins cheekily and earns a giggle in response. A blush fumes in her friend's cheeks, and she snorts, "Your hair is too pink for you to blush, forehead."

Ino earns a white coat tossed at her face; it smells of soap, fresh and untouched by blood.

As the intercom beeps, frantic calls for the head medic on duty echo hollowly across the hospital.

They rush out the door, neither eager to greet the waves of broken bodies. Sprinting past the boys (who have one another by the collars) with grim determination, stern expressions ready to greet Death.

When this is over, maybe they will finally have time. All of them. Time to sit and talk, squabble and tease, and talk about things long pushed away. Frivolous things, laundry and paperwork, strong liquor and love.

And maybe, they will have time to piece everything back together, glue their foundations so tightly until they are unbreakable. The fragments of love, loss, time and war.

It begins with an apology.


	2. Meander

The only thing I like better than ship-ships is friendships. Shinobi drinking problems are headcanon. Originally posted at Archive of Our Own: Faint_Harlot.

* * *

 **Meander**

 _"Do I retreat now, wave off the danger, and live a quiet life? Do I continue until I'm shipped home in a pine box? Or do I meander, like clouds?"_

.

.

.

For what is perhaps the first time in a long time, Shikamaru makes it a point to seek out his teammate.

Lately, it has been an endless forum of debriefing, taking down various accounts of the events which transpired throughout the war. The who and what, the when and where, so scholars can cobble together the why, fifty years from now. It is not as if he expects her to look upon it favorably; it is more that for once, she simply is not handling it.

The streets are quiet and mercifully safe. Never relaxed, current events keep him in a relative state of vigilance.

 _Crunch._

Lifting his boot, he raises an eyebrow at the shards of class; they radiate from a central breaking point, arrayed in an admittedly interesting display across the dirt. The few drops not yet dried indicate the leftovers of a dark, sweet flavor of whiskey. Raising his head to the clear night sky, he surveys the abandoned house to his right, eyes passing over the eerie details. An entire side blown out by a forceful ninjutsu, likely with side effects, judging by the odd shadows left on the brick. It's ghastly, and the burnt grass gives him a dull ache of regret.

The real fighting may have been far away, but its effects rippled far and wide, and down to the last modest home.

He sighs. "Troublesome."

Stairs seem like a pain, so he takes the gutter route; only after he is finished does he reflect that perhaps both ways were a chore. Dusting himself off, he shoves his hands in his green flak jacket and tilts his head at his teammate. "What are you doing up here, Ino?"

Perched at the point of the roof, she swings the bottle back and forth well enough to prove her sobriety. Jaw set stern, she tosses her long blonde ponytail behind her and glares at nothing in particular. "What's there to do?"

A sigh, and he walks over to join her. At least there are stars.

"Don't tell me to slow down, Shikamaru," she warns, and then takes an almost defiant draught from the bottle. Throat gulps in approval. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and it makes him a little uncomfortable.

"Look what happened while we were gone," she begins, continuing to glare. "While we were out traveling, fighting big bads; look what happened at home." Staring down into the shadowed remains of the house, she shakes her head.

"We were needed." If he sounds sure, he is not convincing her. "We had a bigger battle to fight."

"If we don't fight for people who can't defend themselves, then what the hell are we?"

"They were defended, Ino, to the best of the village's ability. Remember, they didn't have powerhouses like Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura running around."

Ino flinches at the last name. "If I were as strong as her, this house—"

"You aren't, but … you don't need to be. You're strong in different ways. This sounds so clichéd, Ino, don't make me explain this all to you."

Taking another angry swig, she slops some down her front. "So that's it? We're done?"

"What are you talking about—"

"So what do I _do_?" Her voice is droll and dripping – the taste of bitter fruit. "Do I retreat now, wave off the danger, and live a quiet life? Do I continue until I'm shipped home in a pine box?"

An angry roar sounds in her throat, rumbling with the foreboding of thunder in the distance.

"Or do I meander, like clouds? Waiting for nothing?"

It shuts him up temporarily, in which she takes the opportunity to balance the bottle near the peak of the roof. For a moment it seems it will stay; then it sways, slippery on the tile, finally succumbing to gravity.

It falls into Shikamaru's waiting hand.

"You're not the only one who feels this way." Pause. "What do you think Sakura's doing right now?"

Covering her face with her sleeve, she shrugs.

"She's probably doing the same thing you are: Drinking, or just sitting, thinking, crying. About her life, and why she's alive when so many others aren't. Thinking about all the people she lost today, yesterday, and every day. She might be with one or both of her teammates . . . or she might not."

Ino tries in vain to stem the flow of tears; roughly wiping them away, she sniffles.

"We're not all so different; power doesn't make a difference," he says.

With that pronouncement, he falls silent. The wind teases them blithely. If they listen quietly, they can hear the ghosts of the broken house. If they halt their breathing, tears and sobs float toward them on the wind, likely ones they know.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she repeats: "Should I meander like clouds, and wait for nothing?"

Taking a swig, he sighs. Weakly, he raises a wavering hand to her hair and fingers the ends.

"That's always what I do."


	3. Tinge

Implied [past] KakaSaku. All disclaimers apply.

* * *

 **Tinge**

 _They are hungry and lonely and waiting, but finally together._

.

.

.

"Did you know, Kaka-sensei?"

He is never one to be caught off guard or startled, but her sharp inquiry cuts a swath through the murmurs of the bar. Slightly seedy, but she does not want to be found. The background noise fades as she tilts the dregs of her glass toward her, then away, watching the thin layer of liquid coat the bottom. Fleeting expressions dart across her face, each more readable then the last; she may have been able to lie to Naruto, but he's a thickheaded outlier, rotating in an orbit just outside the circles she shares with her sensei and her lover.

Or something like that; like the greats before her, the lines are awfully blurry.

She's in an odd place now, unsure of what's next. Loving a man who has to learn to do so again, being loved by a boy who is loved by another. After the war, after all that, she thinks it should be simple, so simple. They have dinner and laugh as easily as they can pass one another like shadows, like strangers. Some days, it's as predictable as the wind.

He is sitting with his pupil, drunker than he should be. Fortunately, her rigidness betrays sobriety, preventing any repeated mistakes.

"Did you know we would be chasing one another in circles trying to fix one another? Forever?"

"I see you trying to fix two grown, broken men."

"That's not it." It is not a protest, it is not a reprimand. It is simply weary and weak, a wisp of a statement. "Other teams fight about the last piece of barbecue, maybe a less-than-stellar formation or two. I can tell . . . that we're different."

If she were a girl again, he would pat her shoulder or head and tell her how it would be all right; he would lie to her, blissfully, with all the finesse of an experienced and guilt-ridden man, and all the good intentions of a father wanting to dry his daughter's tears.

"Powerful people have responsibility to carry the burden, sensei."

He wonders how she manages to sound like a wise sage and a little girl simultaneously, though that could be his bias showing. For once, he does not console her with a fake smile crinkling underneath his worn mask. For reasons beginning with an aged handle of liquor and ending with a paid-off bartender, Sakura has seen her sensei's face in a particular way, a story that will never surface. Anyway, it is scarred with guilt and regret; she handles it as carefully as she does her lover's, because it's incredibly clear how much she craves broken pieces. Keeps them in her pocket to weigh her heart down so it doesn't break free. Some sort of anomaly.

"The price of power," she inhales.

 _The price of love_ , he responds in silence.

Without warning, she hops down from the bar stool, a little girl again. Tossing bills on the waxy counter, she slings her bag over a tense shoulder, turning away without so much as a parting word.

A couple steps; her tiniest movements cut through any intoxicated humdrum in which he could hope to lose himself. Drowning the voices of a daughter and a woman which slur together in strained, sloppy whispers. _To the grave_ , he promises. _I won't ruin you, too._

"You don't have to protect me."

Space billows and balloons where she omits his pet name – painful pressure.

"I'm not _her_."

They beckon her home, hungry ghosts and phantoms, tugging at her pristine white medic coat. They are hungry and lonely and waiting, but finally together.

A sharp inhale breaks him – acquiescing, he swivels on the stool only to staring at her shaking back.

"Still. We'll go down in history . . . for all the wrong reasons."


	4. Doloroso

SasuSaku. Disclaimers. I think there's a plot I found in here.

* * *

 **Doloroso**

 _"You can't hear that? Pain echoing in the plunks of keys? Moving from black to white and back again, until it all melts into grey? That's our story, Sasuke-kun."_

 _._

 _._

 _._

He barely feels his coat being lifted from his shoulders.

In the dimness, glittering green eyes have sought him, pinned him, trapped him. They beckon and drolly tease; indeed, the rouge corner of her lip crinkles into a grin. Then just as fleeting, seeming almost bored, her gaze slides to her right to watch the man at the piano and his female companion, making sweet stories with her saxophone.

How she does this from across a mildly crowded room, he is unsure. Part of him is convinced the _medicine_ she administers is affecting him, somehow. Her skills have come so far and it's frightening, not that he will discuss it. Gentleness abounds, particularly with him, but his cynical slips of the tongue have earned him a few accidental broken ribs and fingers.

Half a glass of red wine goes by before the silence breaks – carefully, a ballpoint hammer and chisel in hand, chipping off one stubborn piece at a time. "What did you do with him?"

Slowly turning her attention away from the somber piano player and his saxophone partner, she quickly takes a gulp of wine. Murmuring into the glass, her soft and abashed tones would be masked to the plain, ordinary listener. Not him, though; he hears everything she says.

When she sighs, when she sleeps.

" . . . Ino and Hina can take care of it."

He raises an eyebrow: _Pushed him off on another date?_

"It can't hurt," she amends, draining the rest of the dry red. On cue and without announcement, the sommelier steps into their comfortable silence and decants another glass. Flowing, rolling unto itself, disturbed only by the curves of a constraining and wide bit of appropriate stemware.

He burns a dark gaze into the side of her face, unreasonably curious of the attention she offers the music, and not him. But as he continues to observe, her nostrils flare. Knuckles whiten. Small chest cavity swells with a breath held. Tears emerge on her eyelashes.

"Sakura."

Without turning, she says,

"You can't hear that? Pain echoing in the plunks of keys? Moving from black to white and back again, until it all melts into grey?"

Her inhale is slow; the exhale, even more so.

"That's our story, Sasuke-kun."

He watches the performers and their pained expressions, the way their languid but deft fingers weave a tale that, at this very moment, is being recorded on a thousand rolls of parchment. A hundred witness accounts; a handful of nightmares. Bodies succumb to the melodies being whispered in the streets and bars, in the back rows of public councils and from parents to children around the dinner table, in the dead of night. The instruments have hearts and lungs, veins and vessels, bound to their skin and outer shells. The music plays _them_.

He almost believes it might be true.

She rises from the table. He begins to follow, but her green eyes now snap to attention, rooting him in his seat. Taking a hint, he lowers himself into the plush chair and tries to shake off her stare. Someone appears from nowhere to delicately perch her coat on sharp, tired shoulders. Fades away, as if existence is questionable. She walks to him, hovers above him, laying her hand against his face.

He sees the folded scrap of paper tucked underneath his wine glass. Frowns.

"Sakura—"

And then she kisses him; softly, vulnerably, split open with a hollow center. Heat sears across his cheeks, dives underneath his collar to leave his neck burning. Layers and layers of skin simmering and on fire for reasons he has never imagined or allowed. The last time the hammer drops it splits him open and his insides come flooding out to pool at her feet. It is dizzying. Regret, anguish. Precisely what he cannot show her, should not show her. It's rising above her small ankles in a swift current. Like she expects, it drowns her.

Like he would never expect, it does not bring about the end of the world. Contrarily, it could let him begin again.

 _We could be … whole._

She pulls away.

Shaking, she holds him in place with a single finger pressing on his sternum. He forgets her strength. In confusion, he reaches for her, the pads of his fingers burning and now he is frustrated and angry, irrationally so. Eyelids falling closed, her last words are barely above a whisper, lost in the closing notes of a quite unorthodox chapter of history.

"And isn't it so sad?"

In the final reverberation of piano wire, he does not hear her leave.

A dying fire, he is left to smolder.


	5. Flake

Shoot, this is turning into something with more of a plot than I imagine and I'm not sure where it's going. We're on a road trip! Implied things and red herrings. Usual disclaimers.

* * *

Flake

 _In which Naruto's coping mechanism is indulging in impulsive life-crisis-decisions._

 _._

 _._

 _._

There's a tense atmosphere at the counter, and in a quaint Naruto-like fashion he indulges in this by glancing to his left, then to his right. Obnoxiously suspicious. Swinging his legs back and forth like a child, perched on the edge of his stool, he drains the broth and slams the empty bowl down. Speckles of sloppy liquid land on Sasuke's arm and possibly the side of his face, but his dark mane seems to prevent it – and also hides his irritation.

Huffing, Sasuke twists his lips at what passes for his friend's "diet," and takes a silent sip of sake. "Talk, or I'm leaving."

Waving his arms in a panic, the blonde slaps his palm against Sasuke's mouth and whispers, "Shhh. Someone might hear us."

There's a foreboding hiss, and Naruto flinches, taking back his hand to rub it carefully and bestow a pout; he forgets about angry, fire-breathing tendencies and other Uchiha-like quirks.

It has been a while, after all.

"So, I told you all about our side of the war before you got 'ere, right?"

Without responding, his companion nods curtly, once.

"So you know it had a lot of complicated . . . well . . . feelings and stuff, and I don't know what it all meant, but . . ." Letting out a frustrated groan, the blonde rubs his hair furiously until it stands on end, as if they were not obvious enough; everyone knows their names and stories, and to be seen together is almost as much gossip-fodder as his personal outings with Sakura.

"I think I messed up, Sasuke," he whines. Sasuke wonders if maybe, there's a genuinely serious note to these proceedings.

Now he's squeezing Sasuke's arm, and subsequently pushing his luck.

There's a quick slap, and, tossing his dark hair with a petulant air, he snaps, "You have 'til the count of three, idiot. One; two—"

 _Plunk._

A pause descends.

" . . ."

"I know, I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions—"

"Tell me that's not what I think it is."

Letting out a loud groan, Naruto's face drops onto the counter and he tugs at his blonde locks again, murmuring childish curses under his breath as Sasuke's unusually surprised expression is replaced by the longest possible eye-roll achieved by a human being. Tentatively, as if it might explode at first touch, he picks up the tiny velvet box and holds it at arm's length.

"She's different, Sasuke," he begins. "She's not like anyone else."

"You know about ten women altogether. And half of them are spoken for."

"She's just special, I don't even know how to explain how she makes me feel. Doesn't make much sense, though. She's not even as much like Sakura-chan as I—"

"Don't."

"Sorry, sheesh, you're touchy. Anyway, I didn't think I would fall in love with _her_ , I thought there was just no way. I always had a . . . different future in mind."

It is only then that Naruto actually looks bashful, and even he can sense the fragility in the implication. Dreams of his female teammate flit across his ocean eyes, a movie reel of clichés and milestones that are hardly able to be hidden from Sasuke; he watches it play, struggling to keep his mental objections under control. She had been a shining star in the sky that fell just short of his reach; and in the resulting lull, while his eyes were unfocused and distracted, a shooting star had swept him into affection he had never known before.

The snap of tensed twine; Sasuke's voice shatters the long-held rivalry of bright, vivid colors now faded, softened lines and blows.

"You said 'love'."

The blonde opens his mouth, but words do not sound. Raising his head to the ceiling and the sky beyond, he muses on it for a minute. Meeting his companion's eyes again, he flashes a smile from ear to ear. "Yup, 'cause I mean it!"

Sasuke makes a quiet noise; Naruto hopes it means approval.

"For once, don't be a colossal idiot. I don't care who it is, though I'm sure I know. Make sure _you_ know what you're doing."

And for a moment they are close again, the past years melting into a caricature, a frivolous and lurid tale told in jest, a rumor of history. As if they are children again, verbally sparring over climbing trees and failed techniques, and he never chose to leave. If either one envisioned they would be sitting, drinking, eating, discussing such upheavals as marriage and love, well, even their Sensei would have had to think a second before taking the unlikely bet.

Chasing one another, and what they could not have, forever.

"Make sure … it's real."

"I never thought you would have to be the one saying that to me, you jerk. I thought for sure you would be the one who needed my advice!" The blonde's hearty laughs nearly drown out his best friend's response:

"Hm. You might still have to."

Though he pulls a pained face, the Uchiha raises his small sake glass; Naruto smashes the ramen bowl against it and yells, "Another round!"

Sasuke rolls his eyes again as passive thoughts swirl in his mind. _Marriage._ He's been hearing the gossip, and Sakura indulged and simultaneously subjected him to a play-by-play of every moment she's witnessed in all these years leading up to it.

The Hyuuga girl would be good for him; smirking, he almost feels proud.

* * *

 _Knock, knock._

Only a single light illuminates the door, revealing his nervous and twitchy hand. With nothing to do, it hovers in the air; the other one is nearly crushing the velvet box in his fist, held tightly to the small of his back.

The door opens. Lips pursed, she asks, "Naruto?"

"H-H-H-Hi!" he stammers, a wide grin plastered across his whiskered face. Eyes scrunched closed, his 'heh' 'heh' 'heh's fade as she sags against the doorframe and rubs her eyes with the heels of tired hands.

"What do you want?" Ino groans.

"W-would you like to take a, um, moonlight stroll, I m-mean, a walk, just a normal walk, an everyday—"

"You're trying too hard." Pulling a jacket around her shoulders, she steps outside and shuts the door. Within his space, he feels a dash of heat across his face and keeps his back away from her watchful, thankfully exhausted, ocean eyes.

"Let's just go. Linking her arm in his, irritated lines smooth into a cheeky smile. Grinning, she asks, "So, what's the occasion?"


	6. Harbinger

Usual disclaimers.

* * *

Harbinger

 _With a flick of the wrist she undulates a menu of paint swatches, ranging from pale pink to gunmetal grey in hue._

.

.

.

"He's been acting strange lately," Ino says, fiddling with a pair of knitting needles. The thick thread is on the table in an unceremonious heap, while Hinata's is shaping up to resemble a wooly winter hat. Sighing, Ino makes a face at her yarn and continues, "Not in a bad way, if you were wondering."

Hinata feels Ino's eyes sparkling at her and wills away the blush rising in her cheeks. "I wasn't worried . . ."

"I think what's going on is, he's trying to talk about you to other women so he can figure out what to do." Now Ino's thread is tied up in her fingernails, and she sends a sidelong glance to Sakura, who looks up from chopping vegetables and sticks her tongue out. "Can you do this with me so I don't look so bad at it, Sakura?"

"Maybe one day you can take over vegetable duty, Hina. I feel like a mother." Sakura tips the root pieces into a nearby basket.

"You are the mother of Team Seven; I tell you that all the time," Ino jibes, abandoning her thread with a huff. "Anyway, listen-listen, he's all nervous and weird and he can't figure out where to put his hands, and then all he talks about the _whole_ time is how he's been getting all this female attention, he doesn't know what to do with it but he's very sure he's in love with someone, so I felt obliged to offer a pep talk. You're very welcome." Hinata's blush deepens and she also puts down her knitting needles.

"I'm sure he wasn't talking about me."

"I'm sure he was," Sakura murmurs absentmindedly, watching something out the window. She pauses, knife hovering above the pepper, ready to strike like a snake. The orange vegetable has no escape. "He's probably waiting to sort out all the feelings in his heart. It's probably not easy. A lot has happened."

The back door opens, is caught and left to close quietly. Sasuke intends to make it to the kitchen without notice, but he can't ignore the three kunoichi who all look up to see him.

With a curt nod, he adjusts his grip on the basket – tomatoes – and continues into the next room.

Ino manages to turn her laugh into a quiet, strangled chuckle. "Speaking of—"

"He just comes and goes," Sakura says blithely, glancing out the front window again.

"Did you give him—"

Hinata shakes her head at Ino, crossing the knitting needles in front of her into an X. Chastened, Ino bites her lips, remembering again how it had been impressed upon them, harshly, _not even whispers._

"The same night Naruto needed advice on the wiles of women, yes."

With that, Sakura puts down the knife. It's a moment or two before her companions realize there's knocking at the door.

Temari's grinning teeth take Sakura slightly off guard. She recovers and opens the door. "Want to come in? We're making enough food for a militia."

"Nope, just dropping this all off, then it's back to making cross-cultural friends," she drawls, handing the medic a thick brown envelope. Black seals in neat calligraphy are on each side, mirrored on the left and right. " I also have these."

With a flick of the wrist she undulates a menu of paint swatches, ranging from pale pink to gunmetal grey in hue. They meet eyes for a brief moment, and Sakura studies the rainbow in front of her.

"Hmm, I'm not too creative. Maybe I'll stick with green." She runs her finger along each narrow swatch, listening to the _pip-pip-pip_ of each one as it's pulled from rank and file and snaps back again. She knows there isn't much time, and has a horrid sense of foreboding as Temari noticeably swallows, and plucks the red one from among the color fan.

"I think this would look good for a kitchen," Temari says. "I'm not an expert, but if you're looking for different, this would work."

Carefully, Sakura takes the proffered color swatch. She inhales in deeply, once. Exhales.

"Thanks," she responds. "I've been looking for a change."

Nodding, Temari turns away before each can see what's on the other's face; there's no façade so airtight, so immutable, that it cannot be detected. Waving over her shoulder, her back already turned, she says, "Hokage-sama and Shikamaru want the corrections soon. I told them you always deliver."

When Sakura returns to the table, it's been cleared of all vegetables and thread, and both of her companions are waiting expectantly. They know the color of the swatch before she tosses it into the middle; still, there was a slim hope hanging in the air for a different outcome. Ino folds her arms, exhales harshly, a slim blonde strand dangling in the air above her head in the gust. Hinata laces her fingers, knuckles white. Sakura presses hers against her mouth, rigid as Sasuke walks into the room.

"The kitchen is red," she whispers. "We need Kakashi-sensei."

An ugly creature hugs her heart. No matter the changes they bring, the suffocating futility of their sacrifice winds itself around her chest. The legends they thought they could uproot and rewrite will chain them down.

 _How stupid. I thought I could be happy._

 _I thought we could be normal._

 _I thought we could be whole._


	7. False Front

False Front

 _She extends her hand to Sasuke, palm facing up. He sees the dried blood under her fingernails, a thin layer of red soaked into her fingerprints, and the crude slash across the lifeline._

.

.

.

His knuckles fall against the door, deliberately; twice, thrice. When there's no shuffling or movement from the other side, he slides a hand into his coat. Fingers brushing against the well-worn, folded paper taking up residence in his pocket, out comes the key. He opens the door with the slick silence of one who routinely moves in and out of spaces without notice, and steps into the office.

While he hesitates to think of the routine as comforting, he does find it methodical and at the very least, it's free of dread. He sets down a pile of pristine, white coats, hears the familiar sound of them hitting the chair. The hospital is quiet, unusually so. The daffodils on her desk are thirsty and look vaguely neglected, and the tiniest crease folds itself into his temple, bothered.

She does not return in ten minutes. She does not return in twenty. After watering the flowers, avoiding the chaos of her desk, opening the blinds, and brooding, he is plenty irritated in a way he cannot explain.

He starts looking for clues: Things look haphazard, untouched. The latest paperwork might offer insight, though it is a rule not to pry into medical information that does not concern him. It's only when he sees that her coat that she left in this morning is still here, but the rest indicates absence—

"Saaaaaakura-chan!"

Naruto jumps when his greeting is met with the sullen Uchiha's frown. Screwing up his face in exaggerated disgust, he mumbles, "Gross, was definitely expecting the prettier one."

"Where is she?"

"Sakura? How should I know? Isn't that what you do, meet her here most days?"

Naruto's eyebrows wiggle obnoxiously. Sasuke shakes his head, waving away any implied routine. "Idiot, weren't you here to see her too?"

Naruto nods with conviction. "She's usually here! We're still getting dinner, right?"

Naruto watches Sasuke walk around, making faces at seemingly random objects in the office. Without warning, he turns on his heel and walks out the door.

"Wait!" Naruto has to jog to keep up with his pace down the hall.

Sasuke feels bothered; something nags at him. A tear in the fabric, an unraveling string. Something doesn't add up and a thought crosses his mind, _you could be paranoid_ , but no, the routine has been interrupted and she would let him know. And only now he's noticing what he hadn't when he walked in: People are conversing quietly, behind hands, like they're watching over the dead. Nurses he normally sees in the same places, every day, are not present. Whispers sweep across the clean, tiled floors, twitching the ends of coats, razor-edged against the click of heels. Naruto keeps up the robust babble, a touchy, out of tune radio in the background.

"—Because between you and me, she puts too many vegetables on my plate! I get plenty of exercise and I'm strong, I don't need all those roots in my diet—"

Sasuke stops on a dime, standing in the middle of the patient receiving room. It's deserted. As if his heart takes a deep breath, teetering, it emits a strong beat that shakes his bones.

Naruto finally falters. "Sasuke . . . are you worried? What are you thinking?"

Sasuke's expression is static. "Something's going on. Don't you feel it?"

"Now that you mention it, it's really quiet, yeah?"

Their eyes meet. Feeling lost, they look around at the empty front desk, the chairs lined in rows. Nothing emerges to clear the fog, except—a flash of blonde.

Ino is coming down the hallway with Sai, both with hands shoved deep into their pockets. They aren't speaking, and when they realize they're facing two-thirds of Team Seven, they glance nervously at one another. Sai's gaze lingers one extra beat on the Uchiha's, and it does not go unnoticed.

"Where is she?" he asks, asking the top of Ino's head.

"Wh-what are you talking about?"

Ino falters, avoiding his eyes, then seems to shake her head with renewed resolve. Lifting her chin, she rephrases: "Who?"

"Sakura-chan," Naruto supplies. "Her office looks weird and empty and we're all 'spposed to go to dinner."

"She might be researching in the main library," Ino smoothly says, almost rehearsed. A statement that could be checked on, but would take time do to so. An obstacle.

"I'm sure she was busy and it slipped her mind," Sai politely adds.

Naruto makes a doubtful expression, and Sasuke bristles. Ignoring him, Sasuke asks, "There's something going on. What is it?"

"Maybe if you wait until she's back, you can ask her then," Sai responds.

Sasuke's eyes take on a steely glint. "I wasn't asking you."

Back to Ino's eyes. She's trying to convey something without clearing the fog, without breaking the glass. _Don't ask. Please don't keep asking.  
_

 _Tap. Tap._

The doors separate gracefully and lift the muffled sound into a clear ring; her heels announce her, and better that they do, as her head hangs low and her eyes seem, hollowed, dull. Sharp, sand-weathered beryl pieces of glass. It takes her a moment to get her bearings. She straightens, trying in vain to reach for the sun, pressing all her joints back into place to cement her existence.

Sasuke doesn't move. Naruto is already bounding to her, trying to relieve her of the sheaf of papers in her hand. Sasuke's preoccupied by her paper-white skin, the tense tendon running down her neck, pulling at her jaw. Her knees bending in, tired, like bowed tree trunks. The pink puffy skin lining her eyes.

"Naruto, I'm fine." She waves him away, discomfited by the eyes of Ino and Sai, glossing over Sasuke's with barely a skip. "Yes, we can still go to dinner, just let me stop in my office."

"Where were you?"

"Busy." Sakura's answer is swift and sharp.

"You left without your coat or bag."

"I didn't have time to bring them."

"What happened?"

Sai steps up to the plate, placing himself in front of Sasuke: "Why are you so concerned?"

Naruto's frown deepens. "Sai . . ."

"With a quick twist of the head, Sasuke says, "I wasn't – _fucking_ – asking you."

Sai's expression glazes over as Sakura's thin fingers appear on his shoulder. He shivers; in an instant, he could be writhing on the tile with a crushed clavicle.

Pushing him out of the way, she extends her hand to Sasuke, palm facing up. He sees the dried blood under her fingernails, a thin layer of red soaked into her fingerprints, and the crude slash across the lifeline.

"I was _humiliated_!" she hissed. He feels angry heat, directed at him, suffocating, her jagged eyes boring into his. It's weak to do anything else but stare right back. "They came and dragged me out, in front of my students. Now the whole hospital knows. They took me in the shadows and threw me in a chair, and I was just _thrilled_ to have to listen to my past transgressions. I had to answer questions I've already answered, making sure I don't slip up and get a detail out of place."

He feels lightheaded in the wake of her anger, aware of the eyes on them.

"I had to be reminded of how stupid I was to offer to go anywhere with you," she continued, voice low. "They asked me over and over if I thought I was in the _right state of mind_ , if I would _betray my village for you._ "

Sasuke brings his palm underneath hers, putting a thumb on her finger to stare at the red stains.

"They were trying to figure out if I'm just stupid, or insane. And now it's all on record, sealed with blood."

"Did Tsunade know about this?" Ino's eyes are wide with fear, but Sakura's stare blankly in response.

"It doesn't matter," Sakura snaps, snatching her hand back from Sasuke. "We don't know if she's still in charge. They'll come for everyone eventually."

An uncomfortable ripple passes through them, a chill. Ino's eyes become unfocused, trying to remember if there's anything that wouldn't add up, anyone she protected or covered for. Naruto seems lost in his own thoughtful spell. Sai's expression is blank.

"Sakura-chan, none of us would—"

She doesn't say it, but Sasuke knows her thoughts: _This is your fault._

Shoving her papers at Sasuke, he feels the air leak from his lungs. She hisses, "Get your own dinner."

He stares at her retreating back, wishing he could say it out loud.

 _I didn't tell them. I lied._


	8. Lachesism

**Lachesism:** Definition: _The desire to be struck by disaster._

* * *

Lachesism

 _"I have nightmares of you lying on the ground, in your blood, in a broken heap. And sometimes . . . I'm not upset about it."_

 _._

 _._

 _._

Sakura fails to hide her nonplussed expression as she takes in the sight of Uchiha Sasuke sitting in her living room. No, not just that. He is in her chair, arms folded and mulling in profile, turned to the roaring fire in the grate in silence.

 _Thunk._ The sound of paperwork hitting the dull wood causes him to turn his head, languishing like a lazy feline. His eyes ping once to the floor, where her bag now rests, then to her.

"Get out."

He nods once, and begins to rise.

"No, just, fucking sit. Just sit."

Lowers himself back into the chair, while her eyes slowly take in the fireplace, the heavy novel meticulously marked with a real, true bookmark. Because Uchiha Sasuke, on top of sitting in her chair in her apartment that he's been flitting in and out of like a phantom, marks books only with the proper tools and not the sticky tabs and jagged scraps of paper, or even scalpels, that Sakura does. One more ingratiating, endearing, maddening aspect of his life she files away for later because it's in her nature.

"I couldn't find Kaka-sensei." Breaking the mausoleum silence, she crouches to retrieve her bag. "Arousing suspicion at work isn't something I can do too much right now."

"We'll need to get him a message—"

"How about a hello?" she says sardonically. "After all, you're sitting in my chair."

Sasuke's eyebrows crease, almost like he's thinking about a complicated arithmetic problem. Getting to his feet and taking the book in one swift motion, he inhales. "You're . . . right. You worked all day. I shouldn't be here."

"No, you shouldn't," she snaps, now irritated at his pathetic attempts. She hates that he's here, emotionally stunted, _trying._ "But I appreciate that you're actually talking to me for the first time in seven years now that it's convenient for you, and you have nothing else to do since you can't escape and go on missions to continue to ignore me."

"Sakura—"

"Sit!"

Sasuke sits, the book resting on his lap. He stares down the barrel that is her thin, stock-straight finger, which with a well-placed poke could leave his ribs in pieces. Right now, it's like a bullet boring into his chest. He watches her let the bag slide to the floor again, abandoning it, chest heaving. Gearing up to speak, but the words are tangling themselves into knots behind her eyes and mouth. No tears, but cold, jagged glass, flint on which to sharpen a knife.

"I may have had to play that up to avoid suspicion," she starts, "but I'm still mad at you. I don't know what you think we _are_ ; I don't know why you're in my house! I want to stay alive and if the wrong people find out that we've omitted details, we will all go down."

"We shouldn't talk about—"

Her stomp resonates across the floor: The table, the lamp, his feet, and the book all jump. "Don't tell me what I can talk about. That's rich, Sasuke-kun."

For all the small ways he's tried to quietly sink into her skin, and no doubt, they are kind things, a fury still toils in her chest. An angry, coiled creature crafted of equal parts of love and hate, intertwined and leaving, heavily, a paperweight of calcified anxiety and anguish. He's pathetically domestic and hopelessly lost, tending to her garden and leaving her a clean stack of coats every week. Trying to alleviate the real worry that has taken up residence inside her, that this cannot last, that he's waiting to flee and leave the mess behind. Because somehow, despite being part of all the messes, he manages to set himself apart from them, and arrogantly so.

"I should have asked."

"Fine, great. Keep staying here, then," she mutters, trying to exit the conversation and choke down the words bubbling up in her throat, hot like acid.

"Sakura."

"It's fine, Naruto always crashing here too, anyway," she continues, swallowing hard, but the fury and anxiety is surging into her mouth. Her saliva thickens and the fog begins flooding her eyes and ears, the tipping point at which someone holds a plastic bag over her head and she begins to drown. Eyes finding the fireplace, then the hallway beyond, she lurches, feeling trapped and panicked, a bird with a bent wing thrashing at the walls of the cage.

Grabbing her wrists, Sasuke swings her around to look at him and seems unsettled by whatever he's seeing in her gaze. Again with the face, looking like he's counting to himself, _one, two, okay_ , his voice is quiet as he says, "Whatever you need to say, say it."

In a swift movement, Sakura has her delicate fingers wound in Sasuke's shirt; yanking him upward, she braces herself for his reaction only to see his expression reflecting calm, the unbroken surface of a gentle pond. Only the knot in his throat, which moves as he allows one full swallow, betrays any discomfort. It's this, in the end, that splits her wide open.

"Do you remember," she hisses, "your fingers and how they felt around my neck? 'Cause I do. I fall asleep and wake up with shit tangled around my neck and all I can think of are your – fucking – hands." Angry tears swell in the corners of her eyes and she lets out a strangled sound like an animal kicked, something small like a rabbit, something in the way. "It's sitting on my chest, on my shoulders, Sasuke-kun, like I'm always carrying something I can't see, things that don't go away. They choke me and people don't know that even when I'm smiling, they're there."

Her fingers curl tighter, pulling his shirt uncomfortably tight, and just like at the hospital he's engulfed in waves of angry heat. Now the fabric pulls so tight but her knuckles do not relent, and he starts to feel his ribs shift as she raises him a little higher, just off the ground, arms shaking so hard and he feels his stomach drop, his sandal tries to find the ground.

"I have nightmares of you lying on the ground, in your blood, in a broken heap. And sometimes . . . I'm not upset about it. You're done, you're dead. You'll never have children, and you'll never hurt me again, and maybe I'll have the chance to do something else, something _normal_ that doesn't have to do with this team and this place. The tales would all be forgotten in old books and you . . . would be gone."

For a second, he thinks she will lower him to the ground; in a quick toss she releases him without warning, and his back lands in the rocking chair. He gasps, the air stolen from his lungs, trying to silence it and keep his temper from boiling over. From being manhandled, and from listening to all of the things that sit in his heart and chime in his head, every day since his prison release. Telling him over and over that he will never be anything close to a decent man, and will never deserve a single second of her unrelenting grace.

Trembling, she finishes, "And if you were, then maybe I wouldn't hurt – _so_ – badly."

Another painful moan loosens itself from her throat, a pitying sound mingling with the creaking of the floorboards and the squealing song of bending tree trunks, bowed by the wind outside. Gingerly, Sasuke rises out of the chair once more and steps toward her, arms at his sides and his movements measured despite the palpable fury in the air between them. Her eyes are cast askew; he sees the reflected flames in a tarantella, in a frenzied dance.

Raising his hands, his dark gaze lingers on her hair, waiting for her to turn back to him. He knows she can sense him and finally meets his gaze.

Looks to his left hand, then to his right. He's asking for permission, ever stubborn, and doesn't know how to form the words.

"Hah." She feels a tear cut a salty, cool path down her cheek, and nods.

With unfamiliar hesitation, he carefully takes her upper arms and leans in. For one fleeting second she expects to feel his lips on her forehead, but it's his chin resting against it instead. _You're hopeless,_ she says, not quite sure whom she's admonishing.

Quiet words, spoken only to her, are swallowed up by the crackling of the fire in the grate. The red paint swatch smolders along with the note she had given him, the dire warning along with the house key. He pulls her closer, and every tiny hair on her body stands to attention as his request seeps deep inside her bones, sends her mind into a dizzying mess. Like aches from the changes in weather, the fleeing of summer and the arrival of autumn, rushing up to meet the cold snap. His voice is low and shadowed and he hisses:

" _Use me."_

 _._

Two blondes let themselves into the house, and freeze. They frantically scramble to hide as they realize they have walked in on something fragile, something not meant for their eyes.


End file.
